


like the movies of old

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 22:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3585786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You clean up nicely,” he says, his version of a compliment perhaps.<br/>Clarke goes for a smile but it feels weak even to her. She hopes he doesn’t notice. “Thanks.” She hesitates, adds “I know it’s silly, I just –”</p>
            </blockquote>





	like the movies of old

Clarke will admit she has a great deal of flaws, if it ever comes down to it – ‘killjoy’ like Miller loves to say with irony in his voice, short tempered sometimes, impulsive always. She sleeps too much and is too grumpy in the morning and even snaps at people when it’s before sunrise and they’re already annoying her. She has a sweet tooth, too, and spends way too long in the river when comes the time to bath.

Clarke has a great many flaws, she admits.

Vanity? Vanity never made it to the list. Not even on the Ark, when she had access to the least damaged, prettiest pieces of clothing. She would always go for the essential, the minimum. Extra ration points were for art supplies, not skirts, and certainly not jewellery.

Which, of course, makes her decision all the more out of character for her. That is, actually taking her shirt off to try on some pretty dress she’s found, there, in the bunker they’re currently raiding, like some bunch of post-apocalyptic Vikings. They always go for the essentials during those raids – medical supplies, blankets, the eventual electronics for Raven to play with, everything and anything useful. Books, too, if they’re lucky enough to find them, and sometimes even pencils, pieces of paper, notebooks. Everything useful.

Not pretty dresses and especially not matching high heels.

It isn’t ground-appropriate, and she knows it would be pretty useless, what with living in hunts and walking in the forest from morning till dawn. Still, she is drawn to the dress like a moth to fire, and that’s the story of how Clarke Griffin strips down to her underwear in the middle of an empty bunker while her friends are raiding the place.

The dress is a little tight in the chest area, obviously made for women more flat that Clarke ever could be, but it otherwise hugs her every curve perfectly, falling right above her knees, and she curses the lack of mirror right now because – damn, because if the dress make her half as beautiful as she feels right now, she wants to see it with her own eyes. But no mirror, and so Clarke settles for slipping on the heels instead and trying a few tentative steps on wobbly legs. This isn’t exactly the elegance of women in those old movies she used to watch with her father but. Well. Close enough, really.

(She hears him laugh in her head, say something about his little girl being all grown up, and her cheeks feel warm at the thought, at the pride she can picture in his eyes.)

Mirror or no mirror, she raises a hand to her hair, tangled them in a lose bun she holds against her skull. If she closes her eyes, it becomes the most intricate hairdo, small stands framing her face, delicate make-up on her eyes and lips, soft gold on her ears, around her neck. If she closes her eyes, the bunker becomes a ballroom, one with an impressive stairway and crystal chandelier, people dancing to the sound of beautiful music, chatting with a cup of champagne in their hand. She smiles at that scene.

Startles at the cough behind her.

So much so that she looses her balance on those damn shoes and falls on her ass on the ground, a yelp of surprise on her lips as she’s reduced to a tangled of limbs and red fabric.

So much for being a classy lady.

Bellamy – because of course it’s Bellamy, it’s _always_ Bellamy – is next to her in an instant, helping her up with hands on her elbows and worry in his eyes. She nods, once, to tell him she is okay despite the huge bruise she knows will blossom on her butt, but still grips his arms tightly. Just in case. Because she’s still wearing the heels.

“Well, this is awkward…” he says, the hint of a mocking tone in his voice.

She tries for a glare, she really does, but only needs to meets his eyes to burst into an embarrassing laugh. Her cheeks are on fire, even more so when he laughs with her – _at_ her.

Only when she feels confident enough that she won’t make a fool of herself for the second time in five minutes does she let go of him, and Bellamy takes two steps back, just not to invade her personal space too much. It’s something he’s been doing a lot ever since she came back to camp, and she doesn’t know if she wants to be grateful or annoyed. A bit of both, perhaps.

Still, decency only goes so far, and his eyes soon racks all over her body, taking in her legs – not so short thanks to the heels –, her body, the obvious cleavage of her dress. Her cheeks aren’t about to cool down any time soon, not when the fire of her skin matches that of his eyes.

“You clean up nicely,” he says, his version of a compliment perhaps.

Clarke goes for a smile but it feels weak even to her. She hopes he doesn’t notice. “Thanks.” She hesitates, adds “I know it’s silly, I just –”

“It’s not,” is his immediate reply, leaving no place for argument. “And it suits you, princess.”

She can’t remember the last time he called her that – before the war, before the dropship, before _everything_ – but it doesn’t hurt as much as she thought it would. It’s different, too. Less mocking, less degrading, more… Fond, almost? Caring.

(Loving.)

So Clarke nods, smiles again. It reaches her eyes this time.

And later, when she’s back in her own clothes, the ones that smell of ash and sweat, when they’re done raiding the place, she grabs a handful of dresses and skirts and blouses, grabs some shoes too, and headbands, rings, necklaces. She grabs them all and packs them into a bag, and shares with the other girls when she’s back at camp, because they all deserve to feel pretty the way she did, all deserve to feel like teenager girls instead of warriors, survivors. The smiles on their lips are worth it.

(The smile on Bellamy’s lip when he sees his sister in a blue dress… This smile is worth so much, too much.)


End file.
